


Expensive cars.

by pimpam



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, british gothic is staring into the coffee isle at waitrose and expecting anything good, fluffy-angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/pseuds/pimpam
Summary: The Zlatan POV of "Some city, doesn't matter which."Every morning Maxwell makes them café malitta from a beaten up moka pot on the hob. It’s incredibly strong, and Zlatan has to keep himself from speeding too much as he drives them to the training ground in his ridiculously expensive car.





	Expensive cars.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> \- For @blindbatalex.  
> \- I... Still don't know how I'm writing these assholes but I have an itch.  
> \- Still not my players and not my clubs. Please kindly excuse any flaws or inaccuracies. I'd like to do them justice, I just don't know that much.

It’s stupid. Like, really fucking stupid. And Zlatan’s not brilliant (clearly) but he’s definitely smart enough to know that _this_ is stupid. Still, he runs the numbers once. Twice. Goes to the five and dime across the street from the hotel that the club’s put him up at, buys a calculator, and then runs them again. He thinks of calling his agent, but that isn’t a great option. It’s like saying, _hi, I’m a young, reckless, and irresponsible wannabe footballer. Please write me off now._ So he doesn’t. He stews for a week, tries to avoid ordering anything too expensive when the team goes out to eat together after practice. Then, the day before he’s supposed to move out of the hotel, into a reasonably priced flat he’s been mature enough to find for himself, he goes to Maxwell.

Even fifteen years on, Zlatan wouldn’t be able to say how he’d known Maxwell would take him in. He just did. And he hadn’t been wrong, clearly.

They figure their way through some sort of arrangement. Zlatan spends his first two months in Amsterdam on an IKEA memory foam mattress on the floor of an empty spare bedroom. It’s plain and the sheets are coarse. It wasn’t the glamour he’d imagined for himself, honestly. Every morning Maxwell makes them café malitta from a beaten up moka pot on the hob. It’s incredibly strong, and Zlatan has to keep himself from speeding too much as he drives them to the training ground in his ridiculously expensive car.

Somewhere along the way, he kisses Maxwell. The Brazilian is shorter than him, everyone is, and Zlatan has to lean over him a bit. But it’s worth it. Maxwell makes the most appreciative sounds when Zlatan’s got a hand on his dick. Maxwell arches his back, presses their chests together, slips an arm around Zlatan’s waist, let’s him know it’s mutual want and not some unwelcomed demonstration of vulnerability.

Zlatan gets his own flat in Amsterdam, finally, but it’s not far and he still turns up on Maxwell’s doorstep demanding coffee. They still drive together to practice. He’s still able to paint a pink blush on Maxwell’s high cheeks with a few words. They still wake up in each other’s bed in identical hotel rooms across Europe.

They move to Spain, to Italy, to France. Win trophies and awards, buy expensive cars, and clothes, and several flats a piece. For a while, Zlatan is able to trick himself into believing they can go on this way forever.

One evening in Paris, Maxwell looks at him appraisingly across a café table, his eyes as dark as the coffee in his cup. Zlatan brushes their legs together under the table, and Maxwell startles, shoulders tensing for a moment before he blinks back at Zlatan. His lips twitch up into a quiet smile, but he doesn’t explain. It’s fine. Maxwell’s allowed to have his personal thoughts. If he wants Zlatan to know, eventually he’ll know.

He’s bored of Paris by the time he leaves. PSG’s won the league, and they’ve, he and Maxwell, been to every museum in the city. They’ve, he and Maxwell, have eaten in the cafés. They’ve gotten drunk together in quiet bars in the shadow of St. Michel. 

Zlatan’s never liked staying in one place for too long, so when Mourinho asks him to go to Manchester, he does. It’s not about the money, it’s about the novelty. Still, he’s _not_ stupid, or completely self-absorbed, despite all evidence to the contrary. He doesn’t miss the way Maxwell’s expression tightens when Zlatan tells him that he’s moving again. Maxwell likes Paris, so he stays another year. It’s fine. It’s not like they’re incapable of being apart. And he doesn’t feel guilty. Not quite.

Zlatan drinks tea in Manchester. He never learned to make coffee in the mornings for himself. Besides, drinking it alone isn’t the same.

When Maxwell announces his retirement publicly at the end of the season, Zlatan calls him. He’d known it was coming, been present through all of the thinking out loud and rethinking that had led up to the decision. 

Maxwell picks up on the second ring, and Zlatan doesn’t wait for a greeting. It’s not necessary. 

“Come to Manchester,” Zlatan invites, a cheerful grin spreading across his face. 

“I could,” Maxwell replies. Then there’s a silence on the line. It’s somewhere between thoughtful and teasing. “I’m not taking a contract there, so it won’t reassure anyone that you’re staying.”

“Come keep me company, old man,” he teases back, gazing out the window absently.

Maxwell’s voice sounds small over the mobile, which is deception in its purest form. “We’re the same age, you know.” 

“Yes, but you are old and retired and Zlatan is not,” Zlatan refuses to be bested. “Old man,” he adds, not quite an afterthought so much as a reminder.

Maxwell makes a derogatory remark about the north of England, and broadly speaking, Zlatan agrees with the sentiment. He hums. "We go to South America, then. You come here, we fly there... Cancun, Rio de Janeiro. Wherever." 

“Maybe Milan,” Maxwell replies, tone somewhat dreamy, maybe even nostalgic. Zlatan snorts out a laugh at him. Italy might have better weather than England, but Milan isn’t exactly an ideal summer vacation spot either. “I’ll book a flight,” he agrees, promising to send the details.

Zlatan tidies his flat that night, buys a moka pot, and stares absently at packages of imported Brazilian coffee in the aisle at Waitrose until other shoppers are annoyed and giving him dirty looks. He picks out croissants that are too moist and English. Then, he shuffles through the line, and winks at the clerk when she offers him a 10p bag with bland resignation.  
The next morning, Zlatan dons an ugly baseball cap and dark sunglasses and drives to the airport in an expensive car. On the drive, he listens to Elis Regina, off some playlist that had been added to his phone years ago by no one in particular. 

Maxwell’s smile is broad and white when Zlatan greets him at the airport. He’d known it would be.


End file.
